


here comes your man

by marinersapptcomplex



Category: That '70s Show
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Character Study, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Repressed, Gay Panic, Hypochondriac Eric Forman, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marinersapptcomplex/pseuds/marinersapptcomplex
Summary: "When he kisses you it’s like kissing God, or something."OrEric is an English major. Buddy is in a band.
Relationships: Eric Forman/Buddy Morgan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	here comes your man

**Author's Note:**

> I know second person is annoying, but stick with it! I also don't understand how American colleges don't work at all, so if my portrayal of them is glaringly wrong don't bully me. I haven't edited this yet also lol sorry.

—

-

The year is 1981 and you are puking your guts up in the backyard of a frat house. There, on the ground, knitted against the grass, are your car keys and the change leftover from your bottle of Colt 45. The year is 1981 and you are wasted like you’ve just touched beer for the first time.

The girl you were making out with five minutes ago is touching the small of your back like she knows you, like she’s Donna, and she can’t stop talking, “Can I get you some water?”

“Hyde,” your head stops spinning. You wipe the acidic drool away from your mouth and try to smile. “I need Hyde.”

“Hyde?” The girl frowns. “Is she, like, your girlfriend?”

“No,” you blink, eyes heavy. “He’s, like, Hyde.”

The girl says something else, her mouth is moving too fast for you to process. The world spins and dips around you until you have to lie down and look up at the sky.

The girl’s head blots out the moonlight as she looks down at you. “Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you whisper, feeling the consciousness drain out of your eyes and into the air. “Don’t bury me in Point Place if I do.”

Darkness sweeps over your body and swallows you whole. Somewhere distantly the girl is calling your name, trying to coax you back into the light and into reality. You fight it, keep your eyes closed, sinking down down down into the floor and into the abyss.

—

-

Later, in the hospital cafeteria, Hyde tells you all about it. “You were so fucked up, man.”

“Gee,” you stare down at the IV inserted into your hand. “You don’t say.”

“I didn’t think it was possible for a man to vomit up his entire body weight.” He grinned. “Always proving me wrong, eh?”

You grimace, stomach aching and empty. Something behind your eyes is fizzing like baking soda and vinegar. “I’m never touching alcohol again.”

Hyde claps you on the back, hard. “Don’t be a baby about it, Forman. You’ll be sipping on Pina Coladas before you know it.”

“Nope,” you say, shaking your head, eyes still fizzing. “Never again.”

Hyde’s sunglasses slip down his nose as he peers at you. “Beer is God’s greatest gift to man, you know.”

You wrinkle your nose, “Can we go home now?”

Hyde smirks, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Sure, Forman.”

—

-

After a year in Ghana, teaching children far younger and somehow smarter than you, you gave up and fled back to Point Place crawling on your hands and knees. The whole ordeal was rather pathetic. Crying in your mom’s arms, sniffing and snivelling while she patted your head delicately.

One night, after dinner, Red slid an envelope across the table like he was Tony Montana. You stared at him, wide-eyed, too terrified to open it.

“Open it then,” he barked. “It’s just paper, it’s not going to bite you.”

Tentatively, you pried it open and looked inside it. A cheque. 

“That’s twelve thousand,” he stated, as if was the most casual thing in the world. “For college, whichever one you want to go to.”

You blinked. “What if I don’t want to go?”

“Oh,” he smirked. “You’re going.”

A moment. You folded the cheque up carefully into a square and slid it into your pocket. “You think I can get into Harvard?”

A surprised laugh tore itself from his throat. “That’s funny,” Red shook his head. This was maybe, if not only, the first time you had seen him laugh with such genuineness. “Real funny, Eric.”

Admittedly, Harvard was a stupid idea. So instead you followed Hyde to Evergreen State College and studied English, mainly because you read Catcher In The Rye a few years ago and now figured yourself an avid enthusiast of literature.

“I’m going out later,” Hyde says, back in your dorm room. There’s a joint hanging between his lips. “You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

“Maybe,” you shift around in your bed, the light hitting your eyes. “If this headache ever goes away.”

“It will,” he exhales a large cloud of smoke. “The trick is more alcohol. Whenever my old man was hung-over, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and knocked that shit back like a champ. Worked like a charm. ”

“He was an alcoholic, not a champ.”

Hyde shrugs. “What’s the difference?”

You nose wrinkles at the smell of the pungent weed. “Can you open a window?”

“No,” he takes another puff. “Anyway, are you coming or not?”

“I don’t know,” the fizzy feeling in your eyes is still there. “Give me five more hours of sleep and maybe I’ll come.”  
  
“Nice,” he flips through the records on your shelf, pulls one out.

“Where are you even going?”

Your turntable crackles and spits as Hyde sets the needle down onto the vinyl. Guitar and drums rumble in. You groan. Bowie’s voice floats out from the speakers as Hyde stubs his joint out on the heel of his shoe.

He grins his shit-eating grin, “This goth chick is playing a show with her band off-campus. I’m hoping if I show up she might blow me.”

“Gross.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you haven’t had any action in months.”

“No,” you turn over on your side, the fizzing suddenly worse. “I’m saying that because I’m not a sexist pig.”

“Donna sure got her claws into you, huh.” His hand ruffles your hair like he’s petting a dog, so you pull away, muttering.

Your skin stings. Everything hurts. If only the ground would open up below and swallow your body whole for a little while.

“I’m going to sleep now,” you say, face mushed against your pillow. “No talking.”

Hyde turns the music up louder, sits down on the floor, rolling up another joint. You breathe deep, and harder, you breathe from the bottom of your stomach as Bowie sings, _who knows?_ _Not me, I never lost control…_

_—_

_-_

_-_

Hyde is right, as it turns out. After hours of tossing and turning, you reluctantly reach for the six-pack of beer stashed under your bed and drink until the fizzy feeling fades away. You can feel your own liver shrivelling up in your abdomen. Still, it works. You don’t complain.

Later, around eight, you pull on a clean shirt and splash cold water on your face. Hyde is leaning on the hood of your car when you unlock it.

“Hurry up,” he mutters around a lit cigarette. “I don’t want this chick to think I’m slacking.”

You just sigh. The car coughs and splutters as you trundle out of the campus and onto the road. An instinct at this point, you slide in the cassette Donna made you before you went to Africa.

“No,” Hyde’s hand pulls it out and chucks it onto the backseat. “I’m not listening to Abba for the sixth time this week.”

“I like Abba.”

“You like Donna.”

“And Abba.”

“Well, don’t say you do at this gig,” The smoke from his cigarette is floating into your face, making your eyes water. “I don’t want to be associated with someone that listens to Abba.”

“What’s your problem with Abba?”

“My problem is,” he rolls the window down, flicks his cigarette onto the concrete below. “They suck, Forman.”

You roll the windows down and feel the cold air rush over your face. Tastes like petrol and rain. The skin on your hand is red and raw where the IV needle used to be. You ignore it, keep on driving.

—

-

At the bar, drinking Budweiser. The goth chick’s name is Daisy, you find out later, when she’s ordering her vodka coke next to you. There’s red lipstick on her teeth when she smiles at you.

“Hyde said you guys went to school together.”

“Yeah,” you answer around your beer bottle. “He even lived with me.”

“Wow,” she plants a straw into her cup and sips on it slowly. Her eyes are dark and glittering, little flecks of green in them. “You guys must be like blood brothers.”

“I hope not.”

Daisy laughs, her lipsticked teeth glinting. “You’re funny.”

“I am?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “In like a totally disarming way.”

 _Whatever the fuck that means._ You just smile. “What time does your band play?”

“Thirty minutes, hopefully. That’s if our lead turns up on time.” She smirks. “He’s kind of a drama queen.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, chewing the tip of her straw. “But he’s great, you should meet him. Most charismatic guy on planet Earth, unfortunately.”

“I hope he lives up to his title.”

“Oh, he will.” She smiles in this odd all-knowing way. Like she knows something you don’t, it freaks you out a little. So you look away, into your beer bottle, watching the bubbles slosh up against the glass like sea foam.

Hyde returns from the bathroom smelling like cigarettes and cologne. You smile. For someone that claims to not care, Hyde still cares, more than a lot. It’s endearing, and also oddly a victory for you.

“What did I miss?” His hand loops around Daisy’s waist.

“Daisy thinks we’re blood brothers,” you smirk, finishing the last dregs of your Budweiser.

“Gross,” he laughs. “Forget blood brothers, I think I’d kill myself if I was actually related to you.”

“Thanks,” you smile pugnaciously. “Love you too.”

You set down a five dollar bill and pay for another beer. The bartender smiles with all her teeth when she looks at you. She’s red-haired, tall. Your heart aches slightly. _This is pathetic,_ you have to remind yourself. Over and over again. _You are pathetic._

The doors open and shut in the distance. A voice calls out. You ignore it, eyes fixed on the red-head. The fizzy feeling is settling into the back of your eyelids again.

“Eric?”

You turn, and in the milk-blue light, Buddy Morgan stands, smirking. His hair is a little longer, darker maybe. There are freckles dotted over his nose that you don’t remember seeing in high school. There’s a small gold hoop in his left ear. He annoyingly looks like everything you’d want the “Most Charismatic Guy on Planet Earth” to look like.

“Buddy?” You breathe out embarrassingly loud.

“It’s been a while."

“Yeah, holy shit. Good to see you, man.”

“Likewise, Forman.” He nods his head, still smiling. His body touches yours as he pulls you in for a hug. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, stupidly, not knowing what else to say. “It really has.”

Buddy’s eyes flick over to Hyde, who’s just watching this all unravel with the smuggest, stupidest grin. “Hyde! Good to see you too. Didn’t know you guys came as a pair.”

“We don’t,” Hyde remarks smartly, shaking Buddy’s hand. “Forman just follows me around wherever I go. He’s like a rescue dog.”

You could punch him. “Not true.”

Buddy just laughs. “So, you guys are here for the show.”

“Yeah,” you nod and don’t stop nodding. The fizzing behind your eyes is worsening, you wonder if maybe there’s water leaking out of them, possibly even blood. “Daisy’s said great things.”

“Well, I hope we don’t disappoint.”

“You won’t.” The words come out firmer than you mean them to. “I’m sure you won’t.”

Buddy steps out of the milk-blue light and passes by you, his hand patting your shoulder as he goes. “Fingers crossed, Forman.”

You don’t watch him walk away, something is stopping you from doing so. Something heavy and all-consuming is forcing your eyes onto the floor and away from the back of his head.

You can feel Daisy smile as she talks, “I told you. Coolest guy ever.”

—

-

Buddy plays guitar like Hendrix, you find out, watching him on stage, twanging the strings with a lit cigarette between his lips. No person is as effortlessly cool as him. It’s irritating, and you’re envious, of course.

Daisy croons into the microphone: _I'm in the phone booth, it's the one across the hall! If you don't answer, I'll just ring it off the wall!_

The drums simmer and spit behind her. People are sweating up against you as they dance. Hyde tries to talk over the noise, “You know, I don’t hate this.”

“Me either,” you say, too quiet for him to hear.

The cherry of Buddy’s cigarette smoulders and glows, the amp growling as his hand slams down on the strings. His eyes meet yours. He smirks over his cigarette, smoke blowing out of his mouth.

That same heavy, all-consuming thing presses its hands down on your chest and squeezes. You look away, you don’t know why, but you do. You have to.

—

-

Backstage, like a groupie:

“That was,” you don’t have words for it exactly. Just feelings, a lot of them. “It was insane.”

“Good insane or bad insane?” Buddy’s head tilts back as he lights another cigarette.

“Good, obviously.”

“Well, thanks.” His smoke lands in your eyes, but you don’t mind. The fizzy sensation has passed, maybe the smoke is helping. “Means a lot that you came.”

You nod, stupidly. Like a puppy. “So, you live off-campus?”

He nods back. “Yeah, not far though. We’re actually hosting a little party tonight at our house, if you want to come?”

“Oh, sure. Yeah.” You blink at him. “Fuck yeah.”

—

-

Hyde and Daisy are basically fucking in the backseat of your car, drunk and laughing. Buddy’s driving. The window is down, you’re gulping in air like a fish.

“Wanna play some music?” He speaks over the moaning and groaning in the backseat.

Your face is beet red, like something out of a comic, before your hands rush to put Donna’s cassette on. The music starts up, drums rolling in.

Buddy grins, his teeth flashing in the dark. “Is this Abba?”

You wince. “Yes?”

He starts to laugh. “God, I haven’t heard this song in a while.”

Shoulders relaxing, untensing. A few walls coming down momentarily. “Hyde hates them, he thinks they suck.”

“What?” His eyes flick over to Hyde kissing Daisy in the rear-view mirror. “Hyde, you suck!”

Hyde mumbles something inaudible before sticking his middle finger up in the air. Buddy twists the volume dial all the way up, drowning him out. You stare out the window, traffic blurring by.

“You know, Forman.” His eyes on yours like magnets. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

You nod, stupidly. “Yeah, me too.”

—

-

In the bathroom, at Buddy’s house, staring yourself in the mirror. Drunk again. Your face is hollower than you remember it looking, grey and pale, like the creature from the black lagoon. Made of mud and sludge. Music is blasting from somewhere downstairs, Queen you think, though it’s hard to tell. Things are slipping in and out of focus. The back of your throat still tastes like bleach and saline.

“So, you’re an English major.” Buddy says later, lighting a cigarette, hair flopping over his eyes.

“Yeah,” the smoke wafts into your eyes. You just blink, ignoring it. “A failing one.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he grins, perfectly. Imperfectly. You have to look away. “You were way smarter than me in school.”

“No way,” you laugh, voice tight and strained. The dark, all-consuming thing is crawling its way up your throat. “You were the smart one. I just sat in your car all day, rolling the windows up and down like a kid.”

He chuckles. “I forgot about that.”

“We made one hell of a team.”

Buddy ashes his cigarette into your empty beer bottle. “Shame we only got a C-minus for that project.”

“Yeah,” you nod, a little too enthusiastically. “We should’ve aced that class.”

He just hums. Something comes over you, you don’t know why you say it. Perhaps its the dark, all-consuming thing now controlling you, “Maybe if you spent less time flirting with me and more time working, we would’ve.”

Buddy pauses, the cigarette burning away between his fingers. The music feels ten times louder. He smiles, for your sake. “Well, what can I say? You were the most eligible bachelor in Point Place.”

You laugh, thanking God. “I’m flattered.”

He stubs his cigarette out, looks at you. Hard. “Wanna drop acid?” He says.

Gears move and click inside your brain. “Sure,” you reply, surprised by your own answer.

—

-

Light, everywhere. Orange and yellow, soft on your own face. Reminds you of the dinner party light back at home, whenever your dad’s boss came over for dinner. You are in Buddy’s room and the turntable is spinning Abba’s Greatest Hits.

“Do you have a dog?” Buddy says quietly, sprawled out on the floor below you.

“No,” you whisper back. Afraid of your own voice. “Fuck. Do I?”

“There’s one in my room. Is it yours?”

“What?”

Buddy points to the empty corner of his room, his eyes big and dark like a black hole. “See?”

Your hands are fading away in front of you, evaporating. The orange light pierces through the empty space where they used to be. “I can’t see a dog.”

“There’s definitely a dog there,” Buddy sighs, shutting his eyes. “Could be a cat though. I used to have a cat, you know.”

Shapes and patterns are forming on the walls, symbols and squiggles. Your body feels loose and too-big. How to fix it? Curl up into a ball and try to breathe.

“Did you ever have any pets?” Buddy strikes a match and lights a cigarette. The sound of the match hissing echoes into your ears and down your spine. Your body stings and aches with noise. You need to lie down in a cold, dark room and cry.

You try to speak, the words are brittle and made of straw. Maybe you are speaking an entirely different language at this point. Still, you answer back, “My sister had a gerbil when we were younger. But I fed it Cheetos and it died.”

“That’s dark,” the smoke pours out of his mouth, thick and heavy, like smog. “You should get your head checked.”

 _You really should._ “My mom and dad thought it just died of old age, but it was me. I killed it.”

“Did they find out?”

“No,” you whisper gently. The world is shifting around you, rearranging and reorganising. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”

“Wow,” Buddy smiles. His teeth are pearly white, blinding. “I’m honoured.”

“Am I monster?” You say, stupidly. 

“What? No, you’re fine. It was just a gerbil.”

“Yeah,” you nod weakly, breathing as much oxygen into your lungs as you can manage. “Just a gerbil.”

The ceiling opens up above you, revealing vast galaxies. You try to reach out for the stars but your hands are now made entirely of light.

Buddy sits up, glances at you. “Are you okay?”

“Maybe,” you can still taste saline at the back of your throat. “Not really.”

“Shit,” he pulls himself up onto the bed and sits beside you. “Sorry, Forman.”

You whimper, forcing your face into a pillow. Soft, white linen that smells of incense. “Don’t be sorry. It’s just… A lot.”

“Wanna talk about something else?”

You nod, feeling thin and used-up. Wrung out like a dirty dishcloth.

“Alright then,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, exhales. “What was your first impression of me?”

“In high school?” You crack open an eyelid, he nods. “Easy. You were the coolest person ever.”

“I really wasn’t.”

“Yeah, you were.” Both your eyes open slowly. The orange light is passing through Buddy’s face like sunlight through a window. “You were easy to talk to and you had great hair, plus you had a Pontiac Firebird.”

“I had great hair?”

“Yeah,” you shut your eyes again. “But that was nothing in comparison to your Pontiac.”

He laughs, light and soft. The sound skips across your eardrums and melts into your brain. You grit your teeth, mouth tasting of sandy beer.

“Do I still have great hair?”

You look up at him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” He smiles, like Donna. Perfect. Imperfect. “You don’t sound so sure.”

“It’s just longer now,” you say shortly. Voice shrunken and small. “I’m not used to it.”

“Maybe I’ll cut it.”

You shake your head harder than you mean to. The light is getting brighter, louder, more blinding. Soon, you are sure, your eyes will be burnt to a crisp in their sockets. “Don’t cut it.”

“Make up your mind, Forman.”

He laughs, and so do you, though you’re not sure why. You don’t know anything. You are spinning top that will never stop spinning.

“I always thought,” you remember. Images slipping in and out of focus. His black hair catching the last slithers of sunlight in Point Place as he drove you home. “Your hair looked so soft.”

He blows a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. He could be James Dean. Brando. “Wanna know my secret?”

You nod pathetically, eyes fluttering and full of stars. He stubs his cigarette out in a solo cup, the embers hissing and wailing.

“Women’s shampoo,” he grins, teeth flashing. He smells of rain and cinnamon. “Works like a charm.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say. Your face feels gooey, like honey.

“Feel,” Buddy takes your hand into his and runs it through his hair. It's stupidly soft. Like butterfly wings or spun sugar. “Nice, right?”

“Yeah,” you smile, your chest re-shelving your heart. “Like a cloud.”

His fingers curl like candle-wax around the shape of your palm, melting, melting, melting. If only he could melt entirely into you and the pair of you could stay engulfed in this warm, orange glow forever. 

The freckles are dancing around on his face. He looks at you, you look at him. “You’re crying,” he says, reaching forward and tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

“I am?” You press your fingers into your face, pushing on the skin like bread dough. Buddy guides your hand towards your eyes, wiping the water away from them. The fizzing behind your eyelids has stopped, you now realize.

“Forman,” his voice like heaven. “I think I want to kiss you.”

“Oh,” you say softly, smiling. “Sure.”

There is an entire sun in your chest as the gap closes in between your bodies. He aims for your mouth but kisses your ear, pressing you into the bed. He covers your body with his body and time stops, halts, freezes, fractures off into the air, meaningless. Buddy tastes like tobacco and brownie batter and nothing like Point Place. It makes you want to laugh and weep all at once, for reasons you can’t quite explain.

“Everything okay?” He breathes into your neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper, hands in his meadow-grass hair. “Perfect.”

The record crackles and spits in a faraway land. The music plays on and on. Your hand snakes through Buddy’s hair and down the back of his neck. The orange light is hot on your face, burning and bright and blindingly real. 

—

-

You are half-asleep in the backseat of your own car, parked outside a McDonalds. All the windows are down, there’s classical music playing from another car loudly. When you sit up, your brain rattles into place and reboots itself. A bag is thrown at you. Inside it: a big mac.

“You look like shit,” Hyde says as he gets into the car.

“Thanks,” you peer into the sweaty bag, almost heaving.

“How much sleep did you get?”

“None at all,” you squint at the bright sunlight outside. “I think I’m still high.”

“Lucky I’m driving,” he tears a chunk of meat off his burger. You wince, suppressing a gag. “I can’t believe Eric Forman dropped acid and I wasn’t there to witness it.”

The air blowing through the windows is painfully cold on your face, it stings like menthol. You cover your face from the sun with your hands like a vampire. Hyde reaches over and flicks the skin on your neck.

“Ouch, asshole!”

“Congratulations, man.” Hyde smirks, “Looks like someone got lucky last night.”

You glance at the mirror, spotting the patches of purple just above your collarbone. Something comes undone inside your chest. Hyde looks at you expectantly, eyebrow raised. It is easier saying nothing, so you stay silent, and choose to stare out of the window instead.

“Oh, come on.” He pulls a face. “Are you really not gonna tell me who it was?”

“No,” you clear your throat. “Because it’s none of your business.”

“Or is it because she was ugly and now you’re embarassed?”

“Nothing is stopping you from shutting the fuck up.”

Hyde starts the engine, backs out of the parking lot. The love-bites on your neck sting in the open air, but you let them. You don’t mind the feeling. And like every other unavoidable thing, sleep shrouds itself over you and pulls you into the darkness, away from the noise, the colours, the lights. 

—

-

In your lecture, later that day. Reading poetry. You drag a blue biro under almost every word in your book. Your professor tears up whenever he reads Sylvia Plath. After class finishes, you pat his shoulder gently. He looks at you, exhausted. 

Donna calls, to your surprise. “Hyde told me you did acid.”

Biting your tongue, “Does Hyde ever keep his mouth shut?”

“God, no. Why would he?” She laughs quietly. “How was it?”

You can feel the hickies on your neck aching under your turtle neck. “Weird.”

“Weird?” She hums. “I’m intrigued, Forman.”

“I don’t know,” a sigh escapes your mouth. “It was like the whole world was moving around me — I could see things that weren’t there before, and I felt like I was a part of them. Like a whole."

The signal crackles. Donna laughs, louder. “God, you sound fried.”

“Yeah, I haven’t slept.”

“Well, I won’t keep you.” Another voice is talking distantly behind her, a man’s. You ignore it. “Just wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me?”

“Yeah, dillhole.” Her voice is sweeter, more careful. “I still care about you, you know.”

“Oh, right.”

“We’ll talk soon, okay?” Laughter in the distance, people talking, music playing. “Try not to die or anything, Forman.”

“Will do,” you say, but she’s already hung up the phone.

It is still light outside when you crawl into bed. Hyde, thank God, is out with Daisy and with any luck will not be back until tomorrow morning. Outside, you can hear other students getting ready, squealing and screaming, probably already drunk.

Remembering: _Buddy’s bedroom_. Shirtless, seeing God. Kissing until your lips were sore. Everything getting woozy. Before it went any further, you pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” He had said, hand on your cheek.

“I don’t know,” laughing but also crying. Fat tears rolling down your face. “I’m sorry.”

He smoothed his thumb over your jaw. “Don’t be sorry, Forman.”

“I think I’m dying,” in hysterics. Probably a mess to look at. “Am I dying?”

“No,” he told you, smiling. The walls behind him were dancing. “You’re here with me, okay? You’re safe. We’re safe.”

Not much else was said that night. Buddy had fetched you a glass of water and put you on your side. He said something about the recovery position, you couldn’t quite remember. You think maybe you wrapped your arms around him after that but there were gaps in your memory, like torn seams in a shirt.

Better to not think of it now. Better to just sleep and move on and shelf it away in some dusty corner inside your brain. Better to sleep and forget and never talk about it again like normal people did.

—

-

Dreams of him and Point Place. The old chemistry lab. The Pontiac. Sitting in the darkness and letting him kiss you and leaning in, melting into it just for a millisecond.

This time when you pull away, you don’t flinch. You barely blink. “Kiss me again,” you say, moving closer. “I want to feel it this time.”

He kisses you, agonisingly slow and sweet and a little bit rough. It is a movie kiss. The kind-of kiss you would see in all those grand 1950’s romance movies your mom forced you to watch when you were little.

“Eric,” a voice says, dragging you into the light and out of Buddy’s Pontiac. When your eyes open Hyde and Daisy are looking down at you. “Wake up, will you?”

You roll onto your other side, voice like glass and rusty nails. “Go away.”

“It’s, like, 5pm. Wake the fuck up.”

Blinking, slowly. “What?”

“Yeah,” Hyde looks you up and down suspiciously. “You’ve been out for a while.”

“Are you sure you haven’t got a concussion or something?” Daisy asks, head titled.

“Fuck,” sighing, then sitting up, your bones like metal. “I had a lecture at 12.”

Hyde pats your shoulder roughly. “There, there.”

“You should come with us,” Daisy’s lipstick is darker today, plum-coloured.

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting fucked up,” she smiles, bearing her teeth, canine tooth sharp and pointed. “It’ll be fun.”

“Come on, Forman.” Hyde blows on his sunglasses, wipes the condensation away with the hem of his shirt. The cologne smell radiating off of him is stronger than you remember it being a few days ago.

“Fine,” you say. “Whatever."

—

-

Probably an alcoholic at this point. You don’t remember the last time you felt water sitting at the bottom of your stomach and not tequila or vodka or beer. Since the acid incident, something feels as though it’s been swelling up in your abdomen. Liver cancer? Appendicitis? If you were still at home, you would run to your mom and beg her to call a doctor.

“Did you see anything then?” Daisy’s nails are tapping against the table. Chipped red polish. Blisters around her fingers.

“What?” You answer, bug-eyed and sweaty. It is entirely possible that the acid has not fully left your system yet.

“My friend said she saw heaven when she did acid,” placing a cigarette between her lips. Hyde’s fingers snapping the lighter open for her. “But I think that’s bullshit.”

Saying nothing. The music in the bar getting scarily loud.

“Hey,” Hyde clicks his fingers in front of your face. The sound knocks you out of your daze, almost winds you. He stares at you and you stare at him. “So, did you see anything?”

“Um,” you shrug. Under your Rolling Stone’s t-shirt, Buddy’s hickies are glowing red-hot. “I don’t know about heaven, but — I saw things, I guess.”

“Yeah?” Daisy flicks the ash from her cigarette. “Like what?”

“Like,” the inside of your mouth is painfully dry. “There was light everywhere, and it was a part of you, whether you wanted it to be or not. It was just there, you couldn’t escape it. At first, it was kind-of nice but — I don’t know, after a while it started to feel like the light was going to burn me to a crisp.”

“Hm,” Daisy bites her lip, some of the plum lipstick rubbing away on her teeth. “Sounds intense.”

“Yeah, it was.” Laughing it off. “Some parts were nice.”

“Which parts, Eric?” Cigarette bit between her teeth, eyebrow raised. This look in her eyes, annoyingly omniscient.

 _Does she know?_ The dark, all-consuming thing inside you asks. _It’s fine_ , you tell it, pushing the thing down further and further into the depths of your stomach. 

“Of course some parts were nice, Forman.” He looks at Daisy. “Did I tell you he got laid?”

“Why does she need to know?” It doesn’t help that your voice breaks when the words rush out.

Hyde just smiles. Daisy looks at you like she wants to ingest your face. She says, carefully, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me.” She glances at Hyde, knocking his foot with the heel of her boot. “No peer pressure, unless it’s drugs.”

“Yes sir,” Hyde salutes her, and they laugh, and you laugh with them, inwardly terrified. You want to hide, to be not here, you’re not sure why. You don’t want to ask why. _Don’t look at me_ , you want to tell them. _Don’t look at me, please._

_—_

_-_

You smoke with Daisy and Hyde, Janis Joplin playing on the radio. It could be the weed, but her house is smaller than you remember it being at the party. More constricted, tight. You have to take your jacket off to breathe properly.

“Buddy should be back soon,” rings of smoke escaping Daisy’s mouth. She looks right at you when she speaks, “He finishes work early on a Friday.”

The back of your neck getting hot. “Okay,” you answer bluntly. “Why are you telling me?”

She smirks, derisive. “I thought you guys were friends.”

“I mean, barely.” Already sounding like an idiot, but not shutting your mouth. Something compelling you to speak. The words are spilling over your brain too fast for you to catch them. “He was my chemistry lab partner, like, one time.”

“Okay,” she just carries on looking at you. Won’t fucking stop. “Cool.”

“Forman, why are you acting like such a little bitch?” Hyde’s drumming his fingers against his leg, eyes closed and lost in Joplin’s killer guitar riff. “Just chill out.”

“I am chill,” you say, tell him. Daisy’s eyes are still on you, fixed, deciphering something.

“God,” she laughs. “You’re not a homophobe, are you?”

“No!”

“No?” She tilts her head, the joint burning away between her blistered fingers. 

“No,” you swallow. The fizzy feeling is returning in your eyes. “I’m cool with — _that_.”

“Sure you are,” sighing, looking away from you. “So, what then? It just makes you aggressively uncomfortable?”

“I never said that.”

“No, you didn’t.” She looks you up and down with a slight nod. “I guess you could say I’m interpreting the data.”

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable!”

“Hm,” she adds, stubbing the joint into an ashtray. “You know, back in March, a group of meatheads on the football team followed Buddy home, threw rocks at him.”

Not knowing what else to say other than, “Jesus.”

Daisy’s eyes are sharp and dark. “He didn’t get hurt or anything, but — God! It made me so mad. And Buddy just didn’t care, thought it was fine, but it wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry to me,” she’s chewing her lips again. The plum lipstick is almost completely gone. She leans forward and looks at you hard. “What I’m saying is, I’ve met plenty of people like you, Eric. People who claim they’re progressive and forward-thinking and ‘ _cool-with-it_ ’ when they’re really, really not. Buddy might be fine with those people treating him like shit, but I am absolutely fucking not.”

Clean silence. The high catching up to you suddenly. Hyde, probably, if not more stoned than you are right now, quietly saying, “Word.”

The music stops, a radio host taking over. You try to talk over the noise, “But I’m not one of those people.”

“That’s great, Eric.” Poison between her teeth. “I’m happy for you.”

“Seriously! I’m not one of those people.”

Daisy: done with this conversation now. Her hand stretches over to the radio and turns it up louder, drowning out the sound of your own guiltiness. Hyde shoots you a look: _tough luck_. You turn away, ignoring him.

The weed was a fatal error, you begin to realise as the world around you pulsates and smoulders. The light pouring out of the lampshade above you is pink, rose-quartz colored. It almost hurts to look at, the sensation is like one of several stepping stones towards pain itself. Since doing acid with Buddy, every single glow or gleam feels as though it’s bruising your eyelids. You wonder when or if your body will ever feel like a body is supposed to again.

The door opens behind you. Footsteps stagger in. You’re not going to turn around and look but Daisy makes this odd sort-of gasping noise and Hyde says, “Holy shit.” So you turn and you look and you see Buddy, who is standing by the door, covered in blood.

“Nobody panic,” he says, trying to laugh. “I’m okay.”

“What the fuck?” Daisy helps him to the couch, sits him down firmly. His blood is on her hands, dark red and glistening. “What happened?”

“There was a fight outside this gas station,” he blinks, dazed. Shakes his head slightly. “I tried to step in and stop it but some asshole bottled me over the head.”

“Fuck,” Daisy lightly touches the gash just above his forehead. “You shouldn’t have stepped in, you ass.”

“Ouch,” Buddy winces, pulling away from her. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” biting her lip like crazy now, the skin shredded and chewed up. “There’s a first aid kit somewhere, I think. I’ll go look. Try not to bleed out while I’m gone.”

“Gotcha,” he smiles, totally casual, watching her go. You don’t know how he does it.

“Shouldn’t you maybe go to a hospital?” Staying very still, just watching the blood drip down his face. It is kind-of horrifying.

Buddy looks up at you, shrugs. “I’ll be fine. Probably.”

“Probably?” You say.

“You don’t need a hospital.” Hyde pats Buddy’s shoulder hard, Buddy almost reels back from the force of it. “These doctors, man, they’re evil. They’ll pump you full of drugs until you’re addicted and then charge you a fortune just for slapping some tape on that nasty cut of yours.”

Buddy looks the two of you up and down. “You guys are totally stoned.”

“No,” you say, just as Hyde says, “Oh, totally.”

And he laughs, soft and plaintive. It is maybe the most beautiful sound you have ever heard, but you are, as Buddy just put it, totally stoned. Whatever is swelling up inside your abdomen starts to flutter and jump.

“Daisy’s stuff is really strong,” blood is browning just above his eyebrow. “Last time I smoked it I woke up in the fountain on-campus. Didn’t know when or where the fuck I was.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, spaced. His blood smells like monkey bars and copper. “It feels like this room is suffocating me.”

“You should eat something,” another smile. Your chest constricts around your ribs. “You’ll feel better after that.”

“How are you so calm right now?”

“Oh, I’m in a lot of shock.” He laughs but there are tears in his eyes. “I think maybe it’s evening out the pain.”

Nodding, “Right, makes sense.”

“Found it!” Daisy now coming down the stairs, first aid kit in her hands. She opens it up and pulls out a packet of alcohol wipes, delicately sweeps one across Buddy’s open, leaking wound. He squirms, gritting his teeth. “Sorry,” she says, over and over.

Everything is getting very small. The walls and ceilings are taller than you remember them being. When you turn to look at Hyde you can see every pore on his face, every pockmark and freckle magnified.

“Hey,” Daisy nudges you with her foot, though you barely register it. “Press down on this, will you?”

She gestures to the wad of gauze on Buddy’s head, but you just stare. He says, “I think you’re supposed to put your hand on it.”

“Right, sorry.” You move forward, placing your hand atop the gauze with as much strength as you can muster. “Does it hurt?”

Smiling even bigger, his laugh gently grazing the air around you. “What do you think, Forman?”

“Sorry,” smiling too. Utterly spaced. Something about his blood on your hands.

“You need to stop apologising, man.” His eyes on your eyes and your eyes on his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Maybe you have. There’s this feeling inside you like you might have. “Okay,” you say as Daisy lifts your hand away from the gauze and starts sticking medical tape down. You stare at the blood covering your hands, then wipe it away on your jeans, watching the stain sink into the denim like red ink.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Buddy says later, finally standing, the gauze taped down to his head like a horn. “Should probably get this blood off me.”

“Don’t get your gauze wet, I put a lot of work into that.” Daisy sizes him up. “And don’t pass out.”

“I’ll try my best not to.”

“Shout us if you do,” she adds as Buddy disappears up the stairs, waving her off. “Please don’t die!”

“I won’t!” He calls out, already out of view. A door opens and closes in the distance.

Hyde claps his hands together. “I need to eat something. Preferably waffles. At least twenty of them.”

“We’re not leaving —”

Cutting her off before she can even finish, “You can go get some. I’ll stay here.”

The light is dancing around in Daisy’s eyes when she looks at you. That same old all-knowing smile filters back onto her face. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” nodding nervously. Hands on your knees, fiddling with the denim. “I think if I go outside I might die.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hyde stands up, stretching. “If Forman doesn’t want to come, who am I to argue with the man?”

“Okay,” Daisy follows after Hyde, lagging behind a little. You can hear the water running upstairs. “We won’t be long. You want anything?”

“Whatever leftovers Hyde has.”

“I don’t leave leftovers, Forman.”

“Nevermind,” reclining into the couch which is swallowing you whole. “You go ahead.”

Hyde is already out of the door when Daisy turns back to look at you, plum lipstick entirely gone. “See you soon,” she says, walking away, the door clicking shut behind her.

A moment. Then, not thinking about it, choosing to be reckless. You run up the stairs, towards the bathroom door. The fizzing sensation behind your eyes is going into overdrive. You really do not expect the door to be unlocked when you turn the handle, but it clicks, squeaks, opens slowly. _Maybe he was expecting you…_

“Eric.” Standing in his t-shirt and briefs, blood scabbed around his eyebrow. The shower is running behind him, throwing out steam into the room.

“Hi,” looking at him, into him. Your heart feels sick inside, you can’t explain it. “This was less creepy in my head.”

“Not creepy,” he smiles, the dried blood creasing on his forehead. “I was hoping you might you follow me up.”

“Well, cool.”

“Yeah, cool.”

“You know,” leaning against the door, almost smiling. “You shouldn’t leave the shower running like that, it’s a real waste of water. Bad for the planet. Global warming, that’s what the scientists are saying.”

“Hm,” Buddy looks at you, face all doughy and soft.

“You just look like the type of person that might care about the environment.”

“I’m literally a vegetarian,” he starts moving towards you slowly, too slowly. An ineffable smile on his lips. It is so infuriating how good he looks, even when his face is caked in blood.

“Well,” you say but he cuts you off, pressing you up against the door. You are basically silly putty in his hands. It is pathetic and entirely perfect.

“You smell like weed, Forman.”

“You smell like blood.”

When he kisses you it’s like kissing God, or something. _Totally cosmic_ , Jackie might say. You have never been touched like this before — manhandled in the gentlest way possible. You almost feel bad for never being able to touch Donna like this, feel bad that she never felt the way you feel right now.

“Maybe we should get in the shower,” he breathes into your neck, teeth scraping skin. There are noises coming out of your mouth that shouldn’t be coming out, that haven’t ever before. “Wash the blood off.”

“Yeah,” you kiss him back, slower. “But I kinda like the blood.”

“Gross,” says Buddy, his laughter tickling your collarbone. “Didn’t realize you were so kinky, Forman.”

Your hands touching the hem of his shirt, trying to pull it up off of him. Adrenaline coursing through your veins like fucking heroin. That dark, all-consuming thing inside you is howling, screaming, drumming its fists on your chest.

“Need any help?”

“No,” you whisper hopelessly, not wanting him to pull away from you. “I got this.”

“Sure you do,” he smirks, his hands swiftly loosening the buttons on his shirt. When he leans into kiss you again, his fingers graze past the waistband of your pants. “You should probably get naked too.”

“Right,” fingers trembling as you unbuckle your belt. His hands guiding yours, helping you. A total mess. You kiss him harder, pushing him towards the shower, the steam getting in your eyes. “We should’ve done this sooner.”

“Preaching to the choir, Forman.” His teeth nipping your bottom lip ever so slightly. “If you weren’t so repressed in high school, we totally could’ve.”

Pulling away, maybe not meaning to. It all happens very fast. “I wasn’t repressed.”

Buddy’s mouth comes away from yours. “You kind-of were.”

“I wasn’t,” you say, shaking your head.

“I don’t remember you coming out in high school.”

“That’s because I didn’t. Because I wasn’t —- I’m not, you know.”

“Gay?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Buddy looks at you, eyes glittering. “So, you’re bi then?”

“No, I’m —” the words tripping over your teeth, getting twisted and pulled. “I’m not anything. I don’t know!”

“So, what is this?” He glances down at his unbuttoned shirt, then over to you. “What do you call what we’re doing?”

“I don’t know,” a poor choice of words. But still true, because really you do not know.

“You don’t know?” Not angry, something else. Light dulling in his eyes.

“I know that I liked, still like Donna. And,” wiping your mouth where he nipped you. Your eyes meeting his, having to look away. “You know.”

“No, I really don’t know.”

“Why are you getting upset about this?”

“I’m not upset, I’m — disappointed, maybe. I think. I don’t know what I think, you make me feel really fucking confused, Forman.”

“But there’s nothing to be confused about,” trying desperately to pick up the pieces. “There’s just this, here, right now.”

Buddy sighing, parting the shower curtains and turning the tap off. The room suddenly very quiet. “Well, I don’t think I want to be treated like a commodity.”

“Commodity?”

“Yeah, like an object.”

“I know what a commodity is, thanks.”

“I understand that sexuality is a spectrum, okay? And I get that you’re still trying to figure out whatever the fuck that means for you,” he frowns, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’m not a toy. You don’t just get to throw me around and experiment with me when you feel like it. It’s not fair.”

“I’m not experimenting.”

“No?” He picks his bloody shirt up off the floor and slips it on. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know! I don’t have words for it,” watching him watching you. “Why does there have to be an explanation for everything?”

“You know what? It’s cool, man.” He touches your shoulder gently as he passes you, smiles. And you know he really means it. “I’m not mad. And I know it’s a lot to take in, I understand. But if this is just an experiment, I don’t want to wait around until you get bored of me and decide to go back to Donna. I just don’t think I have the energy for that.”

Attempting to coax words out of your brain, words that will make sense and potentially glue the shattered pieces of whatever _this_ is back together. But before you can even begin to search for any, Buddy walks away, carefully shutting the door behind him.

The steam begins to clear out of the room. You stare at it pitifully.

—

-

Midnight: trying to sleep. Hyde is snoring in the darkness somewhere. Your fingers trail up to your mouth and you kiss them. Once, twice. You don’t really know why.

The swelling in your abdomen is getting worse, it keeps you awake, restless. The thing inside you has given up trying to gain control, you can feel it perching on your ribcage, exhausted and miserable.

You tell the thing, _if I knew how to not be like this, I wouldn’t be like this._

 _I know_ , the thing inside you says.

 _I used to be normal_ , you remind the thing.

 _I know_ , the thing sighs. _It’s okay._

—

-

It is barely light outside when you wake up. Being careful not to wake the Kraken (Hyde), you slip your shoes on and wander outside to the phone booth.

Your mom’s voice sounds like a warm fireplace when she answers the phone, “Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Eric!” She giggles and shrieks. Distantly, Red grumbles. “Oh my goodness, what a lovely surprise. How are you doing, honey? Are you eating properly? Getting your five-a-day?"

“Yeah, definitely.” An obvious lie. “I eat broccoli now.”

“You do? That’s just wonderful, Eric. Very grown-up.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“How come you’re up so early? I hope you haven’t been out partying.”

“No,” you smile, wanting to cry. “I’m a model student, I promise. Just couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” she hums. “Did you want to talk about anything in particular?”

Hesitating. “Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

Probably a terrible idea, “You wouldn’t love me any less if I was different, right?”

“Different like… _Special_? Because I always thought you might’ve had dyspraxia. You had terrible balance as a child, always falling over — such a klutz!”

“No, not like that. Just, I don’t know, different.”

“I would never love you any less, unless maybe you were a mass murderer.” A gasp from the other line. “You haven’t killed someone have you?”

“No, God! No,” you say laughing. The tightness in your chest loosening a little. “I just always thought I was — different when I was a kid. I don’t know how else to explain it."

“Well, you’re not different to me. You’re my baby. I don’t think it would be possible for me to not love you.”

Glassy-eyed now, tears almost breaking through the floodgates. “Well, thanks. Love you too.”

“Anytime, sweetie.” The signal sizzles and cracks. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“No,” you smile, blotting your eyes. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

—

-

Eating chicken noodle soup at the local diner. You stare down at the crumpled piece of paper in your hand with the name of a certain brand of flu medicine scribbled down on it. Your mom was very specific about the right one to buy.

After two spoonfuls of watery soup you traipse to the nearest CVS. At the counter, the chemist takes the piece of paper from your hand, disappears behind a shelf. When she returns with the bottle, she places it into a paper bag along with a ring-pop.

“This stuff really knocks you out,” she says as she passes the bag over. “Don’t operate any heavy machinery if you can.”

“I’ll try my best.”

—

-

Drinking half the bottle in one sitting. A terrible, stupid idea but at this point, you will do anything to sleep. Hyde, thank God, is still dozing by the time you come back to your dorm room so it’s easy to collapse into your bed without any interruptions.

You don’t dream, or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell. All you see is darkness and a few fleeting lights, like shapes and stars falling over you. Somewhere, out in the great unknown, a voice echoes out and calls for you.

“Eric,” the voice says, sounding a lot like Donna’s. “Wake up.”

The darkness shudders and constricts around you. The voice cuts through it like a sharp ray of light through a cathedral window.

“Eric, come on.” The voice calls again, you try to run away from it. “I didn’t drive three hours from the city just to watch you veg out all day.”

Consciousness returning, you force open an eyelid. Donna is sitting at the end of your bed, hair braided and a lot shorter than you remember it being.

“I don’t think you’re really here,” you blink, moving to turn back over on your side.

“Oh, I’m here.” She pulls the quilt away from your body and drops it onto the floor. You shiver and shake, your swollen abdomen tensing up. “Come on, get up.”

“How did you get in?”

“Didn’t Hyde tell you I was coming down?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she smiles, shakes her head. “Well, whatever. I’m here now. And you shouldn’t leave your spare key under a mat, you know.”

“Okay,” pressing your face into a pillow. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“No,” she says, slapping the back of your leg. You yelp and yowl. “Let’s get breakfast.”

She buys you a breakfast burrito at the tex-mex place on-campus. Food has never looked more unappetising to you, which might have something to do with the half-bottle of flu medicine you consumed earlier.

“No offence,” she takes a bite of her burrito, chews it slowly and carefully. “You look like shit, Forman.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“When did you last drink water?”

“Maybe two weeks ago, could be longer.”

“Gross. Really?”

“I think my body is shutting down, Donna.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.” She washes down her burrito with a large sip of cloudy lemonade. “Hard drugs and alcohol will do that to you.”

You groan, letting your head down onto the table. “I’m too young to die.”

Donna places her hand on the top of your head, softly says, “You’re fine, Eric. You just need some sleep and a ten-litre bottle of water.”

“I don’t know, I think this might be it for me.”

She sighs and smiles, just like she used to. “You know, I never thought I’d say it, but I really did miss your bitching and moaning.”

It begins bubbling up inside, you can’t contain it. You look up at her. “I’m sorry, Donna.”

Staring at you, wide-eyed. “Jesus, Eric. It was just a joke. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I mean…” water is definitely bleeding from your eyes. You’re too tired to bother stopping it, to bother wiping the tears away. “I’m sorry about everything, from before. For leaving.”

“Oh,” she says, putting her burrito down. Sitting up straight. “Right.”

“I know, you probably didn’t — don’t want to talk about it. Neither did I, but,” seriously snivelling now. Wiping your nose with the back of your sleeve. “I’m sorry for letting things end the way they did.”

“Hey,” her hand holds your wrist tentatively. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t think it is,” her rainwater eyes are staring straight back into yours. “I think something’s wrong with me, Donna.”

“I already told you, Eric. You’re not dying.”

“No,” whispering now, your voice collapsing in on itself. “Not like that. Like something is wrong _inside_ me, in my brain, or maybe my body.”

“That acid really screwed with your head, huh?”

“I used to know who I was but I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

“I know who you are, Eric.” She squeezes your arm, a gesture of comfort. It sets something off behind your eyes. The tears keep falling and falling.

“You don’t, not really. If you did, you would think differently of me. And it probably wouldn’t be a _good_ differently.”

“Eric, you’re boxed out of your mind on flu medicine. You’re overthinking. I really think it would be in your best interest if you took a couple of deep breaths and calmed down.”

“I’m trying to be calm,” you count the beat of your heart, just to check that you’re not dead, and find that, yes, you are in fact alive. “It’s just hard because I — so much stuff is happening that wasn’t happening before, and I don’t know how to deal with it, how to make it slow down. I just wish I could fix it, fix _me_.”

Donna’s hand moves to yours, squeezing it. “Eric, you know I love you, right? Not like how I did _before_ , but like how friends are meant to, I think. Whatever deep, dark secret you think you’re harbouring, it doesn’t matter to me. I like you whoever you are — deep, dark secrets and all.”

“But you don’t know —”

“I do know.” She looks at you. “I know, Eric. At least I think I do.”

You don't know what to say, to do, so you just look straight back at her.

“You don’t have to say it out loud if you don’t want to,” she smiles. “And if you do want to say it out loud, then that’s also fine.”

“Okay,” you breathe, letting oxygen into your lungs. “Okay.”

“Come on,” she pats your hand, then wraps the foil of her burrito up into a ball. “I’ll buy you a bottle of water.”

Later, outside a bodega: sitting on the curb. Donna cracks the cap open on a water bottle and hands it to you. It’s ice-cold in your sweaty palms, a shock to the system.

“Drink up. You look like a sick Victorian child.”

Obliging her, gulping it down. The water is crisp and clear going down your throat, like snow. It isn’t long before you’re drinking the whole bottle, pounding it back like beer. Donna laughs as you catch you breath, the bottle now empty.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Being hydrated.”

“Yeah, ” you laugh with her. “It does.”

She sits down next to you, breathing in the fresh air, slinking back far enough on her hands so that she can feel the sun on her face. “You know, I’ve been seeing this guy.”

“Oh, right. Cool.”

“He’s doing philosophy — metaphysics, or something. He’s kind-of a douchebag.”

“You guys sound like a great match.”

“I’m not too invested, don’t worry.” She laughs, then shakes her head. “Anyway, he told me this thing that really stuck with me, and I still think about it now. He said, don’t seek out the big _because_ — in life and love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions.”

“Okay,” the bottle crumpling in your hand. “Cool.”

“What I’m saying is, yeah, the world is total chaos. It’s weird and cold and kind-of fucked up. We can try and search for reasons why it is the way it is, but we’ll never really know. The only thing that we do truly know is ourselves. So, what you’re experiencing, the feelings that you have, there’s no need to fix them. You’re just you, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“How do you keep getting smarter and I keep getting dumber?” A smile breaking through the misery on your face, finally. Feeling almost normal again.

“I drink water everyday and don’t do acid,” she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That might have something to do with it.”

You lean forward and kiss her. She lets you, perhaps knowing that this will be the very last time. When you pull away, she smiles and laughs, her hand grazing your cheek slightly.

“When did you become such a good kisser, Forman?” She says, and you kiss her again briefly, one last time.

—

-

Donna buys you more flu medicine and a second bottle of water before she leaves. You watch her unlock her car, waving you goodbye — the sound of her radio turning on as she drives away.

You drink the flu medicine. It barely dulls the pain in your abdomen. An idea comes into your head later as you sit on your bed, feeling feverish in the filtered sunlight. Before you can process it properly, you’re already on your feet and moving towards the door, grabbing your car keys as you go.

Bowie on the radio as you drive, singing, _I care for no one else but you, I tear my soul to cease the pain…_

When you pull up outside Buddy and Daisy’s house, the street is empty and quiet. A kid cycles past you on his bike when you walk towards the door to knock on it.

A man twice your height answers, his face blank and space. “Yeah?”

“Who are you?”

The man sighing, “The drummer. You think they can afford the rent between the two of them?” He crosses his arms, rolls his eyes.

“Is Buddy in?”

“No, he’ll be back soon.”

“Oh,” turning away, back towards your car. “Okay.”

“You can wait for him upstairs, if you want. Just don’t touch anything.”

“Sure,” you say as he lets you through the thresh-hold. “No problem.”

“I mean it,” he affirms, watching as you walk up the stairs, towards Buddy’s room. “No touching anything.”

You just nod, opening his door. Back to his bedroom, with band posters plastered over the walls and the smell of Marlboro cigarettes. You close the door behind you and traipse to his bed before lying down on it.

If you shut your eyes tight enough, you can feel his hands against your face and in your hair. The scent of smoke and the taste of cheap root beer. And his sweat, and maybe yours. And the sound of his voice, like chocolate or crushed velvet or a renaissance painting.

There’s a scuff behind you, shoes shuffling, the door clicking shut.

_Buddy._

_“_ Hi,” he says, just staring at you, nose freckled and eyes soft in the dying sunlight. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, curved ever so slightly, smiling. “Wasn’t expecting any guests.”

“I guess I should’ve called.”

Buddy hangs his jacket up on the back of his door, waves his hand. “No, don’t worry about it. You’re here now.”

You want to weep. That pain in your abdomen is getting worse, throbbing terribly. The words come out painfully slow, “I have the flu.”

“Sorry to hear that, Forman.” He reaches forward and pats your back.

“And I think I have liver cancer, or maybe appendicitis. I’m not sure which one. All I know is I’m probably dying.”

“You seem okay to me,” Buddy hums, giving you the once over.

“I’m not though, everything hurts.” Your voice is getting quiet again. It takes everything inside you not to cry. “I feel like I need to be taken into a forest and shot.”

Buddy pauses, starts to laugh. It defrosts something in your chest. You can feel the thing coming back to life again.

“Jesus, you’re dramatic.”

“It’ll be like Of Mice and Men,” you are almost laughing too. “You can be Lennie and I’ll be George. Just tell me to look at the rabbits and pull the trigger.”

“No can do, Eric.” He props a cigarette between his lips, lights it. “I hate guns. You’ll have to find someone else.”

“Well, maybe I don’t need to be shot.” Buddy’s smart, dark eyes are staring straight at you. “Maybe I just need to be taken into a forest and fed moss.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Laughter slipping out with the cigarette smoke.

“I don’t know,” you meet his eyes, blushing hopelessly. “I can’t eat things properly anymore. I think I could eat moss though, maybe grass.”

“Sounds nutritious.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he pulls his jacket back off the door. “Should we go?”

—

-

Twigs breaking under your feet as you walk. Buddy just ahead of you, waiting for you to catch up. You can taste soil and condensation at the back of your throat.

“Feeling any better?” He says, turning to you when you’re finally side by side.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’m glad,” smiling at you, again. It’s all he ever does. You loathe and love him for it. “You were really freaking out back there.”

“I guess,” the cloud banks are soaking your face in iridescent white. “My brain’s just been a little bit — fuzzy.”

“It’s cool, don’t worry about it.”

The two of you pass by a large oak tree, probably centuries old. The clouds part above, decanting light onto your bodies as you walk. Inside your abdomen, something shifts and moves, not painful but just very wrong. Uncomfortable. Maybe if you speak, the tension will release, so you try, “Buddy —“

“Hey, look.” He points at a clearing through the trees, there are red tulips surrounding a bed of moss. “Found your moss.”

The colors feel so raw and tender as the two of you sit down beside the flowers. When you breathe in the air it is like breathing in all of nature at once. Dirt and rain and nectar, dewdrops on grass.

The words spill out, “I want to say something.”

“Okay,” replies Buddy, his fingers picking at the moss below you.

“I’m going to say this quickly,” you pause, just for a moment. “Because I feel like if I talk as fast as possible and you don’t like what I have to say, then we can pretend it never even happened, and that I had a stroke instead.”

The sun is basically making his body glow. _Typical_ , you think. All the spotlight is on him, even as you are dying from liver cancer, or possibly appendicitis. The jury is still out on which one it may be. 

He smiles. “Good plan, Forman.”

“Okay, good.” Taking a breath, then diving head first into it. Stripping down every single wall inside you. “Listen, I like you a lot. I don’t really have words for it, I just — you make me feel things, lots of things. Trying to explain it would be useless because… Because the only way I could feasibly do that would be by opening my skull up and showing you what was inside.”

“God, you are so dramatic.” He laughs.

“Hang on, I’m not finished.” The point you are trying to make is getting lost between your brain and mouth, you try to hold on to it, to tell him. “I don’t know who or what I am yet but I know that I like you, I like this, whatever this is. And I also know that might not be enough for you. So I’m going to say one last thing…”

“Which is?”

“Which is that you’re, like, the coolest person ever and — and that you make me feel kind-of insane because when I’m with you, everything loses meaning and the only thing I can think of is you. The whole thing feels totally cosmic and out of control and like it was maybe orchestrated by God, which is stupid because I’m an athiest.”

At first, all he says is, “Hm.” And then he smirks, looks at you. “Am I still cool without the Pontiac?”

“The coolest,” you breath out, laughing.

Buddy nods, the sun dancing over his face. Perfect. Imperfect. “Can I kiss you now?”

“You don’t have to ask —”

So he kisses you, sweet and slow. He tastes like lemon drops and smoke. His hand presses into the small of your back and lowers you onto the moss below. You feel so soft and gooey that if he were to place his hands on your chest in just the right place they might melt right into your ribcage.

Buddy’s lips are at your ear when he says, “You’re thinking English major things, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” you say, smiling up at him. “Can’t help it.”

“Don’t say sorry,” the sun is slowly filtering into darkness as his hand cups your face delicately. And he kisses you, again and again. “It’s cute.”

You kiss him back, the world blurring. Something in your abdomen loosens, untightens and comes away. The swelling fades away, entirely gone. You smile against his mouth, the sky getting darker above.

He pulls away and looks at you for a moment. There are stars on his eyelashes. “I think you’re cool too, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you reply, hand in his hair. Cool breeze against your face. Blood fizzing in your veins. _This is good,_ you tell the dark, all-consuming thing. And it answers back, feeling ten pounds lighter, _yes, it is._

—

-


End file.
